


World's Worst Kintsukuroi

by Lord_Morzahn



Series: Fictober 2020 [10]
Category: Greenwarden - Elliot Z.
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Multi, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28490661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_Morzahn/pseuds/Lord_Morzahn
Summary: The Tracker's problems effect more than just themselves now. (Fictober 2020, Prompt 19)
Relationships: Asiyeh Nazeri/Tracker (Greenwarden)
Series: Fictober 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081712
Kudos: 5





	World's Worst Kintsukuroi

"I can't do this anymore."

Nazeri's admission is hushed, a whispered plea. You're not entirely sure she even meant for you to hear her, until she looks up at you. Tears are shining in her golden eyes, making them waver.

"I can't watch you get hurt. I can't stand you doing this to yourself."

You bristle, for whatever reason. Old habits die hard. You think you always knew deep down that love wouldn't fix you. It was always just the thing that slid between your broken, jagged edges, cushioning their sharpness. Not getting rid of it.

Like those little Japanese pots with the gold putting the broken pieces back together. But your gold is sentient. It feels all your sharpness. _She_ feels all your sharpness. 

It's probably the notion in your head that she has any say over what you do that gets to you. Your autonomy is sacred, clutched close and protected fiercely.

You bite the anger down like keeping bile in. Guilt is the replacement as it abates. You're not typically one to think about how your actions make others...feel, but you've been trying. For her.

You'd slipped, tonight. Not literally, but you used the excuse anyways to explain the gash on your thigh. Anger and hate had come at you strongly, you needed the pain to clear it all away.

You cut too deep, caught up in your head. Just...just grazed some major vein or whatnot, and you couldn't get the blood to stop on your own.

Nazeri, who doesn't deserve to deal with this, who you don't deserve to have, came running when you called. Stopped the bleeding, sewed you back up, put on the gauze.

No painkillers for you this time. That's fine. Your craving for them is twice as strong as your need to hurt. The pain will be punishment.

You swallow against your dry throat. "Nazeri, I..."  
The words die off in your mouth as you search desperately for something to say. An explanation? Like that would help. An apology? Maybe that would.

You don't get the chance, as she starts crying and you blue screen in shock and terror. Nazeri. Crying. Your fault.

What if she hates you? What if this is it, she doesn't want you anymore? Your fault.

Hot salt burns your eyes as you start crying too. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It's all your broken brain can say, the words skipping like a busted record.

You're both stuck like that for a good while, crying in the bathroom. The blood on the tiles has started to dry to a crusty brown by the time you both get it together, sniffling.

Desperate, you grab some toilet paper and hand it to her- not sure what you'll do if she ignores you. You've been too afraid to reach out and touch her, and she just folded in on herself like a collapsing house.

To your relief, she accepts, blowing her nose and dabbing her eyes. You don't bother with yourself. Let your face be a mess. It's vulnerable that way, and you need some display of that, that trust you've slowly built, to try and get her back.

Because though she hasn't said anything, you've got this big nervous pit in your stomach that you've lost her.

Gold eyes meet yours again, sorrowful, searching.

You jump with both feet into the deep end.

"I'll do better. I'll get help. I swear." Now it's you who's pleading, throwing away promises like candy from a parade float.

She sniffles a bit, her face open and vulnerable. Hopeful, that you mean it. But reserved, wary that you don't. It makes you want to hold her close, to keep promising. Even if you're unsure you can keep it forever.

"You mean it?" She asks, still so softly.

"Yes." The word leaves your mouth in a heartbeat, and it's worth the grovelling to see her shoulders drop in relief.

"Ok..." She says between deep breaths, reassuring either you or herself. "Ok."

She doesn't leave your side that night, sliding into bed on the same side as your injured leg. A soft protectiveness about her, making you rest while she cleans up. Never straying too far from you.

You stay up, watching her sleep with steady breaths. Carefully, you count them, thinking about how each may bring her closer to her last, and how terrible that would be for you.

_It's the same for her then?_ You wonder. You don't feel deserving of that kind of concern, and it makes your intestines all twisty. A mix of rejection and honor.

You slowly let her breaths and the numbers lull you to sleep, allowing your promise to settle down in your heart.

You'll keep it if it's the last thing you do.


End file.
